jowls | open post.

It's not going to end. He would have done anything, back then, to save her, and almost twenty years on, nothing's changed. Even if they have to find a way to commission the chip themselves, they'll make it happen. Scully's not going to die - not now, possibly never.

Mulder knows she's going to kiss him, and he knows he should stop her, and he doesn't move an inch, watching in the dark room as her head rises. She kisses him, and he aches with the feeling of it - but his body responds as easily as when she slid up next to him. This is something he knows by heart, and he lets himself have a few blissful seconds before he breaks the kiss.

"Scully..." He has yet to get over her, yet to try anything with anyone else. He'd heard once, or seen in a magazine article maybe, that mourning a relationship could take as long as half the time the relationship existed - and by that measure, it's going to be years before he's willing to take steps toward anything else. But there's still a kind of wrongness to having her back, knowing she felt like he put her through hell and letting this younger, hopeful Scully believe things might be okay. "Are you sure?"

What he means is: I meant it when I said you deserve more.

She may be young, but she wouldn't call herself hopeful. Scully's gotten here after the end of things; and even if she doesn't understand exactly why, she still knows him, and for her that's enough. Maybe she can't have London or the Bahamas or Christmas in the mountains, but she can have this much, this night, this moment.

At home she's denied herself even that much-- because they have to, for the work; because she knows her days are numbered and she'd thought, if she let herself tell him, that it would destroy him.

But as it turns out-- he's lost her, and he's still here. That's not hope, or belief; it's a quantifiable fact that he's survived her.

And maybe, still, she shouldn't. That kind of thing is easier to see in hindsight-- for God's sake, in med school, if she could go back in time she'd hate herself. Maybe the Dana Scully who moved to this house, who chose the things in it, who didn't tell Mulder how to find her-- maybe she'd scoff the same way, at her younger counterpart whispering an affirmation and kissing him again, sliding closer to him so they don't have to stretch to meet, her arm spread over his chest now.

But she thinks-- there must have been good times, and even if she'll leave, they have to count for something. Just because something ends doesn't mean it shouldn't have started. If she knows herself at all, she wouldn't begrudge herself this. And if she would-- then, frankly, to hell with the future; she'll take the present by the horns for as long as she can.

He rolls onto his side, facing her fully, letting himself be swept up by her apparent desire. That she wants him this badly feels baffling to him, when he stops to think about it - he's not in bad shape, but he pales in comparison to the man she knows - and so he doesn't stop to think. Kissing her, nipping at her mouth, letting his tongue slide along hers - it's easy to stay locked into sensation, at least for a while. His hand moves over her side, coming to rest just above the swell of her hip, making no effort to cop a feel.

When they're both breathing heavily, his lips lingering at the corner of her mouth, he mumbles, "What do you want, Dana? How far are we taking this?"

He's fairly sure he knows what her answer will be, but that doesn't make it any less mind-boggling to him in the moment.

The way she sees it-- it really only took her a few days to fall for Mulder. It took several years to recognize the fact, but between their history and the time she's spent with him--

All this is justification, and while that's habit, she doesn't really need it. He kisses her like he knows her better than she knows herself, and she thinks, he just knows-- he probably always has. It's not about time or history, it's that the two of them fit like a lock and key, different but complementary.

She makes a soft sound of protest when he pulls away to speak, but the way he says Dana makes her shiver. He's always been able to make her last name sound so intimate, but this is new territory-- and, apparently, she's very into it.

"Everything," she says, and she's beaming at him. She puts her hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. "Show me a future."

Not just the one in his rearview mirror. They're here tonight-- there must be something ahead of both of them.

Her palm is warm, his heartbeat steady, and the connection between those two points feels like it's always existed. Scully and Mulder since long before either of them knew that's what they could be - as long as they've existed, maybe this has just been waiting to be found.

Mulder hopes so, anyway. The alternative, that he's somehow cornered her into something she'll grow to regret, kills him.

He cups her face, feeling her smile where it makes her cheeks round, and kisses her again. "I don't know if there is a future. But -"

But he'll give her what he has.

If there's any hope she's holding, that's where it lays. Neither of them are supposed to be here and certainly they shouldn't be here together, but he's kissing her. And there are a hundred things she still doesn't understand-- maybe can't, not without living through them, if she gets the chance. But it doesn't matter.

She loves him in 1997, and now; and maybe she was a fool not to say it back then. Maybe she'll get the chance. But if she doesn't, she thinks, insistently tangling their legs, running her hand along his side, then he should at least know it now.

He can believe it, that she loves him - it might elicit as much worry as wonder, but she's too insistent not to mean it. Scully tends toward the truthful, and when it comes to feelings, if she's sharing them, they're real. But it's remarkable of her to look at him now, a failure in just about every way that matters, and still feel that same desire.

Mulder pulls her against him, a hand cupping her ass, a thigh pressing up between her thighs. They can put off everything else until tomorrow, if she's serious about this - and even in a sour mood, he can read the room when someone's tongue is sliding into his mouth. They can have tonight, launder the sheets after, write an apologetic note - sorry we fucked in your bed. With Scully this close again, he knows what he wants.

After months, years, of putting this off as impossible, surely an impossible moment is the right time to stop pretending she doesn't want it. If she let tonight pass-- her future isn't impossible, maybe, but it's not guaranteed. They have this.

She gasps at the feeling of him pressed against her, bucking her hips in search of a little friction, sliding easily against him in her borrowed satin pyjamas, groping blindly to try and get a hand up under his shirt.

He grows still, groaning as she makes contact with his skin. Slender fingers touching him, goosebumps on the back of his neck, and she's pressed up against his leg like she'd ride it to completion if she had to - anything to be near him. It's the stuff of fantasy, to have her like this.

Mulder takes it as a sign that he can reach for the delicate little buttons down the front of her pyjama top, slipping them through the buttonholes one-handed like he's done it a hundred times before.

If she had to, she would; it might not even take much. The anticipation, and the sudden freedom to do as she pleases, has her nerves alight; she's wet and eager and for the moment all her inhibitions, her second thoughts, her doubts, have been quieted. None of it matters, not tonight.

She arches her back to encourage him, the fabric slipping easily aside as he looses the buttons, baring her pale skin; she pulls her arm back so she can shrug at least one sleeve off, and reaches to pull him down into another kiss.

She's impossibly beautiful in this moment, despite the way he can tell - running his hand up her side, over her ribs, cupping her breast - that the cancer's taken plenty from her. In remission, she'll fill out a little more, despite varying efforts at dieting, and he'll love every inch of her. Here, there's something precarious about the way she feels under his touch; she's still her, still solidly present, but he knows how much of her there's supposed to be, and his instinct says too thin.

He kisses her back hungrily, rolling his hips toward hers, letting his thigh press in and his cock rub against her. It's slow to respond, but sometimes that's how it is, these days.

If there were more light, she might be more self-conscious about her body. Or maybe not-- with anyone else she'd have to weigh the pros and cons of explaining, but Mulder knows as well as anyone why she's a little gaunt, skinny in the wrong ways.

The motion gets a hungry little whine out of her, muffled against his mouth; she's torn between the need for more contact and the fact that they're both still mostly dressed, which is going to be difficult to fix without pulling away. But God, she's reluctant to lose the press of him against her.

"We have to," she manages to gasp between kisses, but she's not quite up for coherence. "Pants," she finishes, a note of irritation tinging the word. She needs more, needs him to touch her with nothing in the way.

He laughs, barely a sound, and answers by reaching for the elastic at her waist. As though he could deny her anything, let alone more of this. Little as he wants to pull away from her, he brings his knee back down so he can help her get out of her satin pyjamas.

He's less concerned with getting his clothes off - that, he'll leave to her, after he's swept his hand up her bare thigh and over her hip. However gaunt she is, however self-conscious she might be about it, touching her has never lost its magic.

It's a near miracle that she manages to kick the pants off without getting tangled in them. She takes the opportunity to get out of the other sleeve, too, which leaves her totally naked beneath his gaze. She should feel shy, maybe; but all she feels is excited.

But it hardly feels fair, so she eagerly gets her hands back on him, shoving his boxers down.

She takes the lead on his underwear, so he gets out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor. In a moment or two, there's nothing between them but air - and Mulder closes the gap between them, his mouth finding hers again for a long kiss, building in heat as it goes on.

It's tactical, even as it's born of real desire. His cock's done very little besides lay there, despite his ardor, and the longer he can put off discussing it, the better the chances that his blood will start rushing in the direction it's supposed to.

It barely gives her a chance to admire the view. She's seen Mulder half-naked-- or more-- but always studiously avoided anything but medical detachment. Now, she has free reign to look, but instead he's kissing her.

She doesn't complain.

If she can't look, though, she'll certainly touch, dragging her palms from the center of his chest to his shoulders, reveling in how broad and well- muscled he is. Even if he's not docking boats and hauling cargo, those days still show, and it sends a thrill through her.

And even soft, his cock is impressive, pressed against her thigh. She's not protesting the distraction from it... yet.

He's kissing her, and he's reaching between her legs - just teasing, letting his hand brush up against her outer lips, slipping his fingertips into the wet heat they hold, but never quite reaching her clit.

And her hands are all over him. She must realize he loves her touch - any touch, but especially hers - even if she doesn't yet know the extent of that. His chest under her palms, his shoulders, they retain the heat of her attention even after she's moved on. He nips at her lower lip, affectionate, and mumbles her name against her mouth.

It doesn't come as a surprise that Mulder's attentions are a little overwhelming. When he's interested in anything, he's always all in-- it stands to reason that sex would be the same. Not to mention he has the advantage of experience, of knowing what she likes. Though she's still half-convinced that it doesn't matter-- that what she likes is, simply, Mulder.

The teasing touch is just the right side of torment; she whines in spite of herself, fingers digging reflexively into the muscle of his arms.

His touch is too light for her to lean into it, to demand more.

"Please," she murmurs, breathy and giddy.

The perfect distraction from him has always been her, though usually it hasn't been quite so sexual a problem. Mulder gives in to her plea without hesitation, fingers sliding between her inner lips on their way up to her clit.

He kisses her chin, and then her jaw, moving back along it until his lips are at her ear. His teeth capture her earlobe as he slides two fingers inside her, and for a moment, he's groaning like he's the one being fingered. She's perfect, all of her, exactly the way she is right now - she'll be different later, healthier, but not any more or less Scully than she is right now.

"Hold on," he murmurs, breathing out warm as he begins to fuck her with his hand, overflowing with a kind of cocky confidence that comes from knowing every trick in the book when it comes to Dana Scully. "I've got you."

It gets a soft little cry out of her, too quick for her to hold back-- quiet and sharp, just for him. For the moment she's forgotten about everything except the feeling of his hand on her, in her; he doesn't need direction or requests or anything except the freedom to touch her, which she'd gladly give a thousand times.

That kind of ego would be a red flag from anyone else-- but Mulder speaks it as fact. And as his hand moves--deft fingers making her feel pleasantly full, finding a rhythm that's just right before she even knows what she wants-- she moans again, eyes screwed shut as she turns her head blindly towards him, her spine slightly arched and her hand twisted in the sheets as she gasps his name.

With anyone else, he wouldn't be this sure of himself - hell, with the Scully he's used to, he wouldn't be. But there was a time when she could stand to look at him, and he knew exactly what to do to get her going. His confidence might be shaken in other places, but in this one specific area, he's still got it.

His mouth lingers at her neck, leaving a little mark over her pulse, as his fingers thrust and drag, seeing how long he can stretch the experience out - but considering just how worked up she is, he doubts it'll last much past this. Which is fine with him, really: She might have brought him in here in an attempt to get him to sleep, but he's perfectly willing to stay up until she's ready to go again after.

If she were more collected, she might make more of an effort to stay quiet; but she can't even think about that. Everything is reaction and instinct right now; she finds herself clutching his arm, not to urge him on but just because she needs to touch him, and she can't find the coordination to be more intentional about it.

It doesn't take long at all-- each thrust of his hand earning a breathy little oh. And when she comes with a loud cry-- too loud, maybe, when he's so close, but she doesn't have the presence of mine to quiet herself-- her nails dig into his forearm, her thighs clenched around him.

"Oh my God," she gasps, when the tension leaves her, letting go of his arm. She doesn't even have the energy yet to try to kiss him.

She's magnificent. Beautiful, demonstrative, demanding - her breath light, her eyes huge in the darkness. And he still remembers exactly what she loves, it turns out. No matter how long it's been, he can still drive her to a climax; she clings to him, calling out like she's surprised it could be this good, and he can't help but feel proud.

He's enjoying it, too. Every time he shifts, his cock brushing against her skin, it's a little spark of pleasure - muted, but not entirely absent. It hasn't done much for actually getting it up, but if this is who they spend the night, it'll be fine with him.

After, she's clearly overwhelmed. He kisses her forehead, letting her catch her breath, and gathers her in against himself.

Of course it's supreme foolishness to think of her future self and wonder, how could you leave that behind? No doubt it was complicated. No doubt she had-- will have-- her reasons. And she's not really so shallow that getting off is the name of the game-- but there's something in the way he touches her, the way he holds her even now, that touches the parts of her heart she tries not to acknowledge.

The thing is, she shouldn't love him. And in the past, with other men, she's seen that almost as a challenge-- part of why she'd avoided admitting it for so long was the knowledge that she's been down that road before. But it isn't the same. Mulder loves her, and she can-- God, that sounds sappy-- she can feel it every single time he touches her.

She's oversensitized and overheated and can't even think about pulling away from him; they lay together for what feels like a long while, quiet and-- at least on her part-- content. Though there's a bittersweet edge, the thought that she could have had some comfort like this for weeks, months, if she could be a little braver.

But she ought to focus, she thinks, on whatever the future might be. And so at length she reaches for his cheek again to pull him down to kiss her, hopeful that this time might be more mutual.

They could spend the rest of the night right here, Scully curled up against him, his face buried in her hair, and he'd be happy. This could be the rest of their lives. Nothing matters except her presence beside him, her breath growing steady; she's everything, all the more so because of the cancer. Her very existence is urgent and impossible to tear himself away from.

He doesn't speak because he doesn't need to, and neither does she. Everything that needs to be communicated exists in their touch. But eventually, she pulls him into another kiss, and it might ass well be a sentence. He answers slowly, in no rush to do anything but experience her.

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